Well, I'm back, to Huelva and to the blog. Sorry for the long hiatus, but more than that I'm sorry for the sappy, smarmy previous post. Hallmark on Line 1.
Anyway, Switzerland rocked. I had a great time, although there was plenty of factors conspiring against my enjoyment of the country and my activities. Firstly, and by far most unpleasantly, I arrived in Basel on Thursday with the beginnings of a crippling stomach flu, probably the worst bout I've ever had. I'm usually pretty resistant to things affecting the stomach, but this one found a weakness (I think it was a small thermal exhaust port, just below the main port) and boy, oh boy did it exploit it. I spent the night shivering and sweating in alternating vigorous sequences, punctuated by frequent visits to the bathroom, which mercifully was both right next door and out of the room where everyone was sleeping.
I awoke having purged every conceivable substance from every part of my digestive system but still sick; indeed, even sicker than the day before. The stomach problems were marginally better--though probably because I ingested things far more carefully than the day before--but I felt miserable. I must have been running a pretty legit fever, because I was absolutely freezing, despite knowing that the hostel was warm and being dressed in several layers. I had absolutely no strength to do anything except sit and try to keep warm and conserve energy for the five minute walk to the train station to meet my friend, who was getting in later that day. It turned out to be more like an hour wait, as I sat in a cafe feeling like I was about to keel over and tried in vain to keep warm. I can only imagine how I looked when Becca first saw me. She says not well, which I'm guessing is something of an understatement. I know I felt like the walking dead, though I'll have to watch Shaun of the Dead again to tell you whether I looked like it too.
Fortunately, the arrival of Becca helped matters, as my health was improving due to the passage of time and medication I purchased at the Basel Bahnhof health center (which, incidentally, is indicated by a green cross, which I found ironic in the homeland of the Red Cross). Becca helped too, as she served both as a distraction from my symptoms and a provider of some comfort (she brought me soup and a Powerade, which counted for comfort food in my state). By the time our train departed for Interlaken, I was feeling better, though still not well. But I had at last reached the on-ramp to the road to recovery and had someone to talk to now, so overall the world was a much better place than had seemed possible 24 hours previous.
We got to Interlaken at night, walked to our hostel (Backpackers Villa Sonnehof--highly recommended) and basically just crashed for the night. It was quite a sight in the morning, therefore, to wake up to a snow-covered vista of mountains and trees and blue sky--Alpine in the truest sense of the term. That first day, Saturday, was mostly spent just wandering the town of Interlaken and the neighboring one of Unterseen, soaking in the sights and, in my case, enjoying be able to be outside and do things again. Because it was the weekend, the Christmas market was set up in Interlaken's main section. It was a very good Christmas market, the kind that makes you appreciate the holidays rather than wrinkle your nose at them. The market was rife with Christmas and Swiss things--Nativity wood carvings, Swiss chocolate, Swiss Army knives, clothing, etc--but also a great deal else, notably a lot of food and drinks. "Market" isn't really the right word; it was for like a festival. There were people everywhere eating, drinking, and just generally enjoying being in such a beautiful country during such an eventful time of year. I myself, still not close to recovered from my stomach bug, couldn't help but indulge in a waffle covered in Apfelmus (applesauce. It makes sense if you think about it) and mushrooms grilled and wrapped in bacon, not exactly the simple flavors and proteins that my recovering system probably wanted. I don't regret it, though; both, particularly the waffle, were excellent.
For Sunday, we signed up to go night sledding, which is exactly what it sounds like. Well, not exactly, because when most of us think of sledding we think of a moderately sized, wide slope that goes straight from top to bottom. The Swiss version of sledding is more hearty: winding down a course in the mountains with no steering apparatus other than our own weight and our feet. And it was night, and the course was not lighted. Our instructor told us the following: "There are no lights on the course--that's why it's called night sledding. But you can see a contrast between darker and lighter. The light is the course. The dark is trees and ledges. Steer away from the dark." And with those sage words ringing in our ears, we pushed off down the mountain. Weaving around hairpin turns and trying to avoid the drop-offs, I couldn't help but wonder how Calvin had the capacity to have all those deep conversations with Hobbes while careening down hills on his toboggan. But then again, his rides usually ended prematurely. I preferred to stay in one piece, even if it was at the expense of wisdom. Besides, I'd already flaunted that by signing up.
So, like characters out of a Marie McSwigan novel, we raced downhill on our plastic chariots, pile-ups and traffic jams common. I actually turned out to be pretty good at it (I would be good at night sledding; such a universally applicable skill, that is), so I was able to avoid most of the pile-ups and build up speed. Moose, our guide, stopped us right before the end to tell us that the last bit was really steep but emptied out into a road, so we had to stop quickly at the bottom (honestly, how quickly would that be made illegal in the US? One week?). After jetting down the hill and avoiding the the mass of people coming up behind, Becca and I took some pictures with some Australians we'd met during the evening to commemorate the night sledding experience and then headed off for cheese fondue and free beer at the mountain restaurant.
This is probably as good a segue as I can find for talking about Australians. You see, they deserve a segue. I love Australians; in all the traveling I've done, mainly in Europe but also in other places, I have never met an Australian I didn't like. They have been without exception affable, outgoing, laid-back, funny, and generally pleasant to be around. These Australians were no different--I just enjoy being in their company. We met an Australian couple in our hostel in Madrid that was really nice and another couple when I was traveling during Spring Break last year that let us use their train passes. I'm sure there are Australians whose company I would not enjoy--one Kenneth Alfred Ham comes to mind--but I haven't met them. And I've been to Australia. So Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.
Oh, and as the cherry on top: the two Australians we met were Ellie and Libby. Libby's last name is Hogan, which makes her the niece of Paul Hogan, who is according to Wikipedia, "an Australian actor, comedian, film producer, and screen writer best known for his acting role as Crocodile Dundee." That's right; Crocodile Dundee is her uncle. This is real life, people. You can't make this stuff up. Ryan Bennett, Karla Simpson, Libby Hogan, Ellie Bowden, and couple we met on the train last year, this post is for you.
On that note, we will conclude chapter one of My Adventures in Switzerland. Read the next one to find out about my encounter with Roger Federer's wife.
(Is he joking?)
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